"With the aid of this indispensable book," he declared, "you will be
able to bring up your children properly."
[Illustration]
Mrs. Adolphus took the book and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
Then she caught it by the edge and brought it down on the palm of her
hand, as if to see if it could be handled with ease and dexterity.
"I reckon I don't want it," she announced, "becase, as a fact, I don't
see dat it's any bettah dan a slippah."
That's going back to first principles.
And you know as well as I do, that some of our best men were brought up
that way.
There is nothing I enjoy better than the rattle of a political campaign.
Take such a hurly-burly time as we had when Jerome was running in New
York for district attorney on the reform ticket.
Sometimes they call on me to make a speech, and if given enough time
ahead in which to prepare, I get along all right.
Once, however, I was caught napping.
I had been given to understand that my name would be called last, and
settled down to pick up some points from the other fellow's remarks, on
which I could build. 'Tis an old trick.
[Illustration]
Through some mistake my name was called second, and before I could
fully collect my wits, I found myself there on the platform bowing to
the applause.
"There seems to be some misunderstanding about my being called so early
in the proceedings," I remarked, "and the incident puts me in mind of
something that once happened in my native town.
"At the death of an eccentric citizen it was learned that he had
himself written his epitaph.
"When the lettering on the stone was completed, we all went to see what
our fellow-citizen had to say of himself, and this was what we read
under his name and date of death:
"'I expected this, but not so soon.'"
That excused me. They didn't want any more speeches from me. They
thought it was an insinuation that our candidate would soon be a dead
one.
And while I'm on the subject of politics I want to tell you of a little
scene that I always look back on with a grin.
[Illustration]
I happened to be in one of those happy Western towns during the heat of
a campaign where they serve out cocktails and revolvers to all comers.
The governor was a candidate for re-election, and being a hustler, made
many hot speeches from the hustings.
Some of the opposition had gathered in front of the hall, and with the
idea of making him nervous, interrupted every little while just when he
was waxing eloquent.
[Illustration]
One very homely-looking man insisted on asking a question about every
five minutes.
He usually prefaced them by such remarks as "Just a minute, please,"
or "Let me interrupt for a minute."
Finally, in an unhappy moment, he broke in with:
"Pardon me, but----"
Before he could finish, the governor, quickly seizing his long-awaited
opportunity, replied:
"Well, I've pardoned worse looking fellows than you in my time, and I
suppose it would be unjust to draw the line now."
You bet there were no more interruptions after that.
Some of you know Claude de Forrest, the actor.
He occasionally finds an engagement, but never twice with the same
manager.
[Illustration]
And yet Claude has his good points, and can do some stunts in his line.
Last winter he was playing at the same house where I had an engagement.
As the hero of the play he had just died a glorious stage death.
Loud and long the audience applauded.
At last he appeared before the curtain.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "as you insist on having a man who
died a few minutes ago come to life and appear before you with a bow
and a smile, I am here to comply with your wish.
"By way of destroying the illusion still further I will, with your
permission, occupy the time while the stage is being made ready for the
next act by reciting 'Hooligan at the Bat.'"
Which he proceeded to do.
And I fancy those misguided people soon wished they had not resurrected
him so soon.
When you manage to run across an original man it pays to cultivate his
acquaintance.
Hobbyhead has been a gold mine to me.
Whenever I have an attack of the blues I just hunt him up, and ten to
one forget all my troubles.
[Illustration]
A few more of his sort would make a stampede among the physicians out
our way.
To tell the truth, every humorist knocks out a dozen doctors.
We were chatting the other day about things sacred and profane, when I
chanced in the course of some remarks to mention that when Gabriel blew
his horn on the final resurrection morn a good many persons would be
surprised at the company they kept.
"Humph," grunted Hobbyhead, "don't you believe that our friend Gabriel
will be the only trumpet sounder at the grand round-up."
"Why don't you think he won't?" I asked.
"Because every self-made man will insist on blowing his own horn."
While we were taking a walk through the country we met a farmer driving
a fine bull in to market.
Both of us commented on the fact that it had a scrubby tail, and when
Hobbyhead insisted on addressing the man I knew he had conceived a
bright thought.
"I suppose, my friend, you'll have to sell that beast wholesale," he
said.
The owner came from his reverie.
"What fer?"
"Well," assured my solemn friend, nodding his head toward the scrubby
tuft of hair, and pursing his lips, "well, you see you cant have him
re-tailed."
But occasionally Hobbyhead finds himself tripped up.
The pitcher may go to the well once too often.
I saw the deed done recently, and you ought to have been there to watch
the humorist turn green with envy.
He was having some additions made to his country house, and had
occasion to hire a tramp carpenter.
Somehow he was suspicious of the man's ability, and proceeded to put
him through a course of sprouts.
"See here, my friend, do you know all about carpenter work?" he asked.
[Illustration]
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
"You can make windows, doors and blinds?"
"Why, certain, sir."
"How would you make a Venetian blind?"
The man considered steadily for several minutes.
"I think," he remarked finally, with a grin, "that I would punch him in
the eye."
He was engaged as soon as John recovered his breath.
Such sharp-edged tools are rare among journeymen carpenters, and I've
suspected Hobbyhead meant to utilize the fellow in order to brighten
his own wits.
Hobbyhead's smallest boy came home from the Barnum show the other
evening.
It was his first outing of the sort, and he was bursting with the
knowledge of the wonders he had seen.
His parental guardian, of course, questioned him regarding the
stupendous aggregation, and soon discovered that among the many
astonishing gymnasts little Jack had been especially attracted toward
the wizard who ties himself up into a bunch of knots.
"I'm going to be a contortionist when I grow up," he proudly announced,
"and right away to-morrow you'll see me start in trainin'."
"All right," said the interested parent; "it's a glorious career, my
son, and to show you how much I appreciate your ambition I shall order
half a bushel of green apples to be sent around. They'll give you a
good start."
[Illustration]
Hobbyhead claims that he gets many of his tidiest puns from this young
hopeful.
For instance, when little Jack was studying his book one evening he
called his father's attention to a fact which he was sturdily prepared
to dispute.
"Say, pa, this book says nature never wastes anything."
"I guess that's right, my son," replied the father, thoughtlessly.
"Then what's the use of a cow having two horns when she can't even play
on one," asked Jack, triumphantly.
Hobbyhead's genius failed him in the emergency.
When Hobbyhead was taking a holiday down at Long Branch, with his
family, the price he had to pay rather congealed his blood.
[Illustration]
Some of the descendants of Captain Kidd must have settled there and
grown up with the country.
At any rate they bleed a man just as thoroughly as in the palmy days of
Blackbeard and his corsair crew.
Hobbyhead had intended spending two weeks at the shore, but when he
scanned his bill he found he would have just about money enough left to
pay fares home.
And he considered there must have been some mistake about it to leave
him even that.
While he was feeling sore and disgruntled, he chanced to fall into
conversation with the proprietor.
This gentleman complained that the rats gave them considerable trouble,
and that he would pay considerable to be rid of the gnawing rodents.
"I can tell you an infallible cure, sir," said Hobbyhead.
"I should be deeply obliged to you," returned the landlord.
"Well, then, once a week make out your bill and charge the rats as
you've charged me, and I'll be hanged if the rats ever come to your
house again," said Hobbyhead.
Would you believe it, that landlord was hurt.
Some people never can take a joke.
Recently I came across a young fellow employed on a daily paper, and
whom I have known some time.
As a usual thing he was a happy-go-lucky, cheerful chap, and I was
surprised to see the dejected look on his face.
Remember, too, he had been only recently married, and to a charming
girl, at that.